


In Which Champs-Élysées Is Skipped

by Niedergeschlagen



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (and thus modern lingo at times), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternatively called: Victor Hugo's fuckboy ghost in 2018 writing like teenagers text, F/F, I'm Sorry Victor Hugo, M/M, Multi, Victor Hugo Pastiche
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-02-27 22:48:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13258224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niedergeschlagen/pseuds/Niedergeschlagen
Summary: This, of course, could not dampen the moods of Courfeyrac, who was notorious for his amenities, and was oftentimes compared to a ray of sunshine for his way of existing – he was boisterous, loud, cheery, good-natured and lackadaisical bordering on flippant. This young man of twenty-two had no care in the world as he shouldered the responsibility of jurisprudence and working a paid internship and juggling with personal conquests, which is to say, getting laid.(or, the adventures of actual toddler Courfeyrac on the playground of life. Kind of in Victor Hugo's narrating style!)





	1. Boulevard Saint-Michel

In late October of 2017, René-Michel Courfeyrac was living in the eleventh arrondissement of Paris, a couple of streets across from Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Antoine. He had previously lived with his intimate friend, Marius Pontmercy, but had moved out at the beginning of the year, because Marius had gotten engaged. The engagement would a few months later be dissolved in all amicability, but Courfeyrac, by that point, had moved in with his other friends, Combeferre and Enjolras. This may seem a meaningless detail, but seeing as this does not harm us in any way, it might as well be told. The three of them had inhabited the small apartment for some months now and could hardly muster together the required money for rent. This, of course, could not dampen the moods of Courfeyrac, who was notorious for his amenities, and was oftentimes compared to a ray of sunshine for his way of existing – he was boisterous, loud, cheery, good-natured and lackadaisical bordering on flippant. This young man of twenty-two had no care in the world as he shouldered the responsibility of jurisprudence and working a paid internship and juggling with personal conquests, which is to say, getting laid.

Yet there was one thing that shadowed the sunshine of this spotless mind of Monsieur Courfeyrac: Combeferre.

Vincent Combeferre, who in the fashions of his friends had adopted his surname as his only name, was a student of medicine with four years of study under his belt and many more to come. Alongside Enjolras and Courfeyrac himself, Combeferre was one of the founders of the Friends of the ABC, a minority solidarity and activist group. The _abaissé_ were not that well-known within the communities it was trying to uplift, but it was on the brink of breaking through, barely missing the threshold of historic importance. There were a good handful of people, who regularly attended the meetings, but if one were to come to a meeting, one would almost certainly always find the following there: Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Joly, Lesgle, Bahorel, Jehan Prouvaire, Éponine, Musichetta, Grantaire.

As stated before, Combeferre was the cloud that shadowed the sunshine of Courfeyrac – but not, in fact, for reasons most would pinpoint on a man, who stems much worry amongst his peers. You see, Combeferre was mild-mannered and gentle in his ways. His friends spoke highly of him, paid him frequent visits when he wasn’t swamped with work – which certainly in his life seemed ubiquitous, and especially Courfeyrac was fond of him.

Now, this fondness that had begun as affection between close friends had taken a worrying turn in the past few weeks. Courfeyrac was not unfamiliar with the concept of _un béguin_ , as we have established he was more than known for frequenting places where single people may meet. He was a returning customer in the market for love. When the time came for him to understand his fondness of Combeferre having grown into love, he was not surprised. Only mildly inconvenienced.

What for Courfeyrac is mild inconvenience is for others of the greatest urgency.

This all had occurred during the five-hour break Courfeyrac had between his morning class and work on Mondays when he had come home and found a sniffling, bed-ridden Combeferre on the sofa, still pouring over medical textbooks with a highlighter in hand and a pencil stuck behind his ear.

“Why on God’s green earth would you become a doctor, if you can’t even take care of yourself?” Courfeyrac had chided him, marching over to the sofa to pluck the textbook out of his reach. He had rested a hand on Combeferre’s forehead. “You are scalding hot.”

“My degree will not complete itself,” Combeferre had replied and attempted to snatch back the book. “Will you let me finish the chapter? I promise to be good and rest afterwards.”

Courfeyrac had, albeit reluctantly, handed back the book and sat down next to Combeferre to ensure he would remain true to his word. Watching Combeferre work with such intensity regardless of his ill state made Courfeyrac’s heart swelter in a way that it had never done before, in conjuction to his friend. He had found himself ten minutes later in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, rubbing his temples and quietly cussing out his miserable existence.

Truly, Courfeyrac had realised himself to be utterly bewitched by Combeferre.

An especially bitingly cold Tuesday afternoon three weeks later found Courfeyrac crossing the Boulevard Saint-Germain and into the warmth of a Starbucks – this was a habit he would never confess to Enjolras, who had an aversion to large-scale corporations. At the till, he ordered himself experimentally a green tea latte and sat down with his drink by the window. A few minutes later, a harried-looking Combeferre breezed in and ordered a drink as well. He looked around the coffee shop and upon noticing Courfeyrac, broke into a dazzling smile. Courfeyrac felt his pulse pick up and he busied himself with taking a sip of his drink.

The green tea latte proved to be a mistake. Courfeyrac did not spit it out, but came close; the combination of matcha and coffee bode fairly unwell with him. Mostly to himself, he muttered: "C'est quoi ce bordel?"

“Hello,” Combeferre greeted him with a modest paper cup in hand. “Have you been waiting for long?”

“A few minutes,” Courfeyrac answered. “I ordered a green tea latte. What an atrocious liquid.”

Out of the blue, Combeferre took the cup out of his hand and replaced it with his own order. He took a seat across from Courfeyrac.

“Um?” Courfeyrac implored, sniffing the contents of Combeferre’s coffee, which appeared almost certainly to be a macchiato. “Are you sure you wish to drink that instead of this?”

“My sinuses are still tragically blocked. I have no sense of taste at the moment,” Combeferre said. He drank from the cup and seemed in no way to be affected by the foul taste of green tea mixed with the deplorable Starbucks latte roast. “See?”

Courfeyrac was not the one to swoon over paltry romantic gestures, but this exchange haunted him for the rest of the day and gave him no rest at night as he tossed and turned. When he went as far as to expound they had almost kissed by the virtue of their lips nearly touching the brim of the same cup, he cursed himself a fool and buried his face in his pillow.


	2. A Visit to the Louvre

A widely-known fact about Courfeyrac was that even though he did not adore art he did adore visiting art museums. There was an ambience to them, unrivalled by other establishments, and being a resident of Paris, Courfeyrac had visited the Louvre more times than could possibly be counted. Oftentimes, he went alone, but every now and then he managed to string along a friend – or a date. However, as of his realisation on the subject of Combeferre, his dabbling in the arts of romance had since ceased. 

This Wednesday, the eighth of November to be particular, Courfeyrac had a day off. It was late morning for him, already past seven, and he was still lounging about in the kitchen with his feet thrown up on the adjacent chair. By the sound of it, Enjolras had already dashed off to work or to class, who was to say, for he lead a life filled to the brim with responsibility and action. With Enjolras, one would always feel tasked with responsibilities that would without a shadow of a doubt be followed by more responsibilities. He was the type of person who might on a sunny, lovely, lazy morning be out of the door by the crack of dawn with a wave of his hand and be found later on the same day, most likely after twilight, still hard at work. His friends told him most days to relax, to be less wound up by the currents of politics and world news, but he was hard to sway. Only sometimes could a tongue-lashing from Grantaire shake him free of his responsibilites. 

Courfeyrac, still lazing, could hear sounds of cogito awakening in Combeferre’s room. The shrill song of his iPhone alarm was followed closely by what to the trained ear sounded very much like swearing, and then a loud thud, almost as if a body reaching from the warm cocoon of a bed well slept in had attempted to reach for the audible offender on the nightstand, only to fall out of the bed, and consequently, out of the claws of sleep. Courfeyrac did not wish to laugh, but there was a degree of delight in the sequence of action that Combeferre followed nigh ceremoniously each morning. When one looked at Combeferre, one would not assume him a man, who still could not fall out of bed whilst turning off an alarm. 

The sound of footsteps roused Courfeyrac from his thoughts and he turned his gaze to the doorway just in time to see Combeferre emerge from his room. Combeferre had wrapped a soft-looking comforter around his shoulders, almost like a shawl, or, if Courfeyrac were to squint, the cape of a superhero. 

“Morning,” came the greeting from Combeferre, who in his somnial state was sparse in speech. “Have we coffee?”

Courfeyrac stood up and walked around the kitchen island to pour a mug for him. “Good morning, Ferre. Did you fall out of bed again this morning?”

A flash of embarrassment crossed over Combeferre’s features. “Ah, you heard me then, I presume.”

“I always do, the walls are rather thin.”

Combeferre’s reaction to this proclamation was the same reaction he had had to Bhad Bhabie’s _These Heaux_ – one of mortification and the morbid temptation of self-immolation. He averted his eyes. “They are, aren’t they?” 

“Well, yes. I said so, did I not?” Courfeyrac said. He handed the mug to Combeferre. “ _Est-ce que tu travailles aujourd’hui?_ ”

“No, thank God. My afternoon class has been cancelled as well. I fear we are now entering the flu season and will be reaping what we have sown – regarding illness prevention. Joly has most likely gone into hiding already.”

Combeferre had a dry wit, this was no news, but Courfeyrac still delighted in his quips like he delighted in him falling out of bed turning off an alarm. He studied Combeferre as he leaned his hip against the low-rise countertop and closed his eyes, presumably to better enjoy the fumes of caffeine. It was now in this moment brought to Courfeyrac’s attention how most of their life together centred around the act of drinking coffee. 

“Do you?” 

“Hmm, do I what?” Courfeyrac questioned. 

“Do you have class today?”

“Ah, no. I was thinking about visiting the Louvre today. There are so many paintings I haven’t seen yet.”

Combeferre looked baffled – or as baffled as Combeferre managed with his range of facial expressions that could best be described by the neutral column in the _Dungeons &Dragons_ alignment chart. He even quirked both of his eyebrows up so that they almost disappeared under his fringe. “Again? Are you going alone?”

“Are you offering to go with me?”

Even on a weekday morning the tourists and art enthusiasts alike were queueing up for La Pyramide. Now with the tightly controlled security checks, the queueing took a few minutes longer than before, but Courfeyrac was almost ecstatic about this stroke of luck that bought him more time with the object of his affections. In the close quarters of the line, their hands brushed together a few times, just knuckles knocking really, but it made Courfeyrac’s breath catch. He was starstruck by the mere presence of Combeferre and was now hanging to his last thread of sanity by the skin of his teeth. 

He fiddled with his phone, opening and closing the chat with he had with Cosette. 

Cosette Fauchelevent was the adoptive daughter of a former convict, now a tailor. Her mother Fantine had died of illness when Cosette had been young, but Valjean was a doting father, who lived only to please Cosette. Yet, she was not bratty in the way many children raised like her were. 

Courfeyrac opened the chat again and typed: _I’m at the Louvre with Ferre, I’m losing my mind this is so romanceeee_

Not a long time passed before Cosette answered with: _Kiss him in front of the Delacroix, he’d love it_

_he would SCOLD me for disrespecting the art_

Fair enough, came the last reply from Cosette, before Combeferre nudged Courfeyrac’s shoulder and asked him, who he was texting. 

“Just Cosette.”

For some reason or another – Courfeyrac could not tell why – Combeferre seemed dissatisfied with his answer. “You are close with her, are you not?”

“Yes, she is the light of my life,” Courfeyrac said. He was known among his friends as an affectionate man. He was rather fond of assigning his friends nicknames such as the one he had just called Cosette by. Still, Combeferre grew oddly melancholy after that and would only cheer up, when Courfeyrac grabbed him by the hand in the marble-floored Denon Wing and dragged him through the crowds. “Come on, dearest, let’s go make fun of Napoleon.”

Combeferre seemed lost in his own world as they stood in front of _the Consecration of the Emperor Napoleon._ Before that, they had paid their respects to La Liberté; the painting, previously known to Courfeyrac and his friends as a symbol of the revolution, had become something of a shrine that aroused feelings of impossible magnitude in them – which is to say that Enjolras cried at the sight of _La Liberté._

“Is something amiss?” Courfeyrac asked Combeferre. “You seem quiet.”

“It is nothing to be worried about,” Combeferre answered. He took a moment to stare at Napoleon with contempt and the slightest hint of disgust before he turned to face Courfeyrac and smiled blindingly. “I am alright here with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yella, pals.
> 
> As you can well divine from this, I'm back on my Les Misérables experimental bullshit (at first, it was the weird witchcraft au, then it was the ferrejolras canon era oddness from courfeyrac's point of view, and now this. additionally, how very me of me to plug my own stuff in the notes). I'm a very, very busy and a Very, Very Responsible College Student, so I have no idea how often this will get updated, but hey - these vignette-like chapters can't be too much for me to plate. Right... Right?
> 
> Courfeyrac/Combeferre will ensue! I promise! This devoid-of-anything-tangible introduction chapter is just me mocking Victor Hugo's way of writing. 
> 
> Also, my deepest apologies to Vicky Large for saying that this is a pastiche. I'd say this is a modern version of Victor Hugo's narrator without the unnecessary self-serving shit and long history-induced tangents. Godspeed to anyone reading this anyway. I promise to write in a chapter on the history of marble. 
> 
> Summa summarum: I have no idea what's going on. Will update sort of regularly. Victor Hugo sucks. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Ps. the name of this is inspired by the poem 'In Paris With You' by contemporary poet James Fenton! I actually, legitimately hate that poem, but I love that one stanza. Hence, the title.


End file.
